


Sine Missione

by stopcallingmeapollo (GayMarauders)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Implied Character Death, Implied Violence, M/M, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 05:18:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11662389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GayMarauders/pseuds/stopcallingmeapollo
Summary: Bahorel is a gladiator who fights for the entertainment of the Praetor; Jehan is his soulmate, feeling every wound that is inflicted on him. But when Jehan joins a rebellion planned by a group of citizens, tragedy is in the air.





	Sine Missione

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AkhIrr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkhIrr/gifts).



Bahorel’s knees hit the ground with a  _ thud  _ that vibrated through his whole body. The sting from the sand in his skin distracted momentarily from the pain in his shoulder, which had stopped moving properly a few minutes before. Sprained, probably.

The roar of a thousand triumphant and outraged voices hit his ears as it had a dozen times before, and he gritted his teeth as he steeled himself to face the man above him. Still kneeling, Bahorel lifted his gaze until it came to rest on a single face several hundred feet above him. The man, elderly, with the angular face and jet black eyes particular to his family, rose from his seat amidst a pile of silk cushions. His expression revealed nothing as he met Bahorel's stare. 

The crowd quieted as they noticed the man's movement, and he paused for a moment before extending his fist in front of himself. His thumb was visible even from the pit where Bahorel knelt, sticking out horizontally. The moments seemed to drag on forever before he finally, decisively turned his fist, pointing his thumb toward the sky.

Bahorel felt a wave of relief wash over his body, wounds momentarily forgotten as he leapt to his feet, grinning impishly at the section of the crowd that has been booing him before and raising his arms above his head in victory. He winced as his shoulder protested, but held the position a moment longer as the crowd roared once more.  _ Now if they'll just let me go find-- _

* * *

 

Jehan cried out in pain, biting his lip hard as heat radiated from his shoulder. The young attendant next to him looked up in concern. 

“Are you alright?” She reached out and touched his arm gently, causing him to hiss.

“I don't know. Feels like a sprain, maybe dislocated...tear me some bandages from the cloth in the basket, will you?” The girl obliged, and he took them with his other hand. “Thank you, Azelma. Now you'd best get back to the kitchens child, you don't want the guards to find you up here when they bring him back.” She nodded, dark eyes wide with worry.

“I hope he's alright.”

“He will be. He always is.” He said it with more confidence than he felt, but that seemed to satisfy Azelma.

“Father says Bahorel is the greatest gladiator he's ever seen, that they'll have to bring in the lions to beat him--” she stopped suddenly. “But I'm sure they won't.”

There was an awkward silence before she bowed slightly and exited hurriedly. Jehan sighed, his brow furrowed as he watched the door, waiting.

* * *

 

After the verdict, Bahorel was quickly lead from the ring by a small group of the Praetor’s guards. They made their way through the passages beneath the audience in silence, the men not even deigning to make eye contact. By the time they arrived at Bahorel’s lodgings--a small cell, decorated more lavishly with every victory--the adrenaline of the fight had worn off, and his body ached so badly he almost wished the praetor had not been so kind. He was shoved unceremoniously through the doorway, the  _ clink  _ of the heavy door being bolted behind him barely registering as his eyes found what they had been longing for since before he was in the ring.

“ _ Bahorel.”  _ Jehan’s voice shook a little as he rose from his seat by the window. The evening sun shone on his auburn locks, giving them the look of fire as Bahorel gazed at him for a moment. Then he threw himself across the room and Bahorel opened his arms wide, easily absorbing the impact of the slight man’s body against his own. Bahorel wrapped one arm around Jehan’s waist, pulling him closer, and brought his other hand up to stroke the soft curls as Jehan pressed his face into his torn and dirtied toga. 

“Well, you certainly seem to have had a lot of faith in my abilities. Surprised to see me, my love?” He was a little giddy, the terror of fighting for his life and the relief of seeing Jehan once more mixing within him. He could feel Jehan shaking slightly, though, so he pulled back just far enough to look down into his lover’s eyes. 

“You were fighting three men, Bahorel, how many people do you know who could beat those odds?”

“They were criminals, not gladiators. The fight only lasted a few minutes.” Bahorel tried not to think of the fate of the three men he met in the ring. He never ended the life of an opponent if he could help it, but he doubted the Praetor’s conscience was similar to his own.

“Sit down, I have some bandages ready,” Jehan said. He could see where Bahorel’s mind had gone--had heard what he cried out about in his sleep. Once Bahorel had sat on his cot, he quickly set about binding his shoulder, both of them gritting their teeth. 

Once the shoulder was set and Bahorel had gulped down a bit of a questionable elixir Jehan obtained from their friend Joly, the pain ebbed enough that Jehan no longer felt it as well, and he curled up on the cot beside Bahorel.

“Lie down now, you need to rest.” Bahorel looked startled at the sound of Jehan’s voice; he had been somewhere else for a moment. Gingerly, he lay down on his uninjured side, facing Jehan. He pulled the smaller man close and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. The two lay there until the sun had nearly set, twilight filling the room and a chill setting in. Jehan pressed closer to Bahorel, sleepily nuzzling him, and for a moment the gladiator was at peace. He shifted gently to grab the blanket at the foot of the cot, but despite his best efforts Jehan felt the movement, stirring and blinking his eyes til he was awake again.

“Shhhh, my love, go back to sleep.”

“No,” Jehan whispered softly.

“Yes,” Bahorel insisted, pulling the blanket over them.

“No, there’s something I have to talk to you about.”

“You can tell me in the morning.” Bahorel’s entire body ached, and he wanted nothing more than to finally rest. But suddenly he could feel Jehan’s heart racing as if it were in his own chest, and he frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“I was speaking with Enjolras today. His father has been helping the Praetor plan some sort of celebration for the anniversary of the end of the war.”   
“That seems about right. Elections are coming up, he’ll have to do something huge to get the votes he needs,” Bahorel replied.

“He is doing something huge, Bahorel. He’s calling it the most spectacular fight of the decade.”

Bahorel’s heart sinks.

“What is he doing?”

“All the criminals and prisoners of war they have in the prisons right now are going to be thrown in together, or with animals. And some of the slaves and younger gladiators will have to fight.” Jehan paused nervously, biting his lip as he dropped his gaze. “And then--before the military reenactments--he’s planning a melee with all the best gladiators.”

Bahorel was unsure whose fear he was feeling as he processed the news. A melee with a dozen of the empire’s best fighters would be nearly impossible to survive, even with his strength and training. He swallowed the desperation building in his throat, breathing slowly and hoping Jehan couldn’t sense what he was feeling through their bond.

“Do you know when this is happening?”

“Elections are in a fortnight, so he’s scheduled it for a week from now. He’s probably announcing it now.”

“A week.” Bahorel let the words hung in the air for a moment, but the look on Jehan’s face was worse than any wound he’d sustained in the ring. He called on all the courage he was so well known for, and took Jehan in his arms suddenly. “I am truly blessed then. Who else gets to know when his last week with his soulmate is?” He quickly brushed a tear from Jehan’s cheek, thankful the bond didn’t cause a similar reaction in himself. “Let’s make the most of it, shall we?”

* * *

 

Six days later, just before dawn, Jehan slipped away from Bahorel’s cell. He found his way through several narrow passages before he rounded one last corner and saw what he was looking for: two men, one short and pale, the other tall and dark. 

“Hello?” The figures turned around, and relief showed on their faces. 

“Jehan,” the taller of the two said, “We were beginning to worry.”

“I would never abandon you,” Jehan replied. “It just took me hours to get away--Bahorel hasn’t slept soundly since I told him about the games, and he only just now drifted off.”   
“Does he know of our plans?” The shorter man asked.

“I thought it would be better not to give him more to worry about.”

“I see. Well we’ve told everyone we can--Courfeyrac went down to the kitchens, Feuilly to the attendants’ quarters, even Grantaire has been passing it along. When the bell tolls to signal the start of the games, we rise.” As he spoke, the man bowed his head, rubbing his temples.

“Are you alright?”

“Enjolras’s soulmate has been in some distress lately, it’s taking a toll on him. I keep telling him to go to a diviner and see who it is--”

“I don’t have time for such-- _ nonsense  _ right now, Combeferre,” Enjolras snapped. “Besides, whoever it is is clearly just hung over, I’ll be fine.”

“You’ve been feeling his depression as well, though--”

“Drop it.”

Jehan frowned in concern; he had never seen his friend so tense. He handed him a small vial he kept in the pouch at his waist.

“I usually give this to Grantaire when he...regrets the previous night’s activities. It may help you with the headache.” Enjolras took the vial, downing the liquid quickly.

“Thank you. Now you’d best be going--”

Enjolras cut himself off mid-sentence, and Jehan realized he was staring at something behind him.

“Citizens Enjolras and Combeferre, you are under arrest for conspiring against the praetor.” Jehan turned around gasped. Behind him was Javert, the head of the guard, and five heavily armed men. Two of them stepped forward to grab the men in question, pushing them to their knees as they fastened their arms behind their backs with rope. “Take the attendant as well,” Javert added, and with a single phrase Jehan’s freedom was gone, his life over. A guard bound him tightly and soon they were all being shoved down the stairs and passageways, toward the prison cells buried deep underground.

* * *

 

Bahorel woke to the feeling of small hands beating relentlessly against his back. Rolling over, he cracked open one eye and found himself face-to-face with a young serving boy.

“Gavroche? What are you doing here?” and then, as he felt a strange sensation around his bare wrists: “Where’s Jehan?”

“Arrested. They found him with Privati Enjolras and Combeferre and took him to the lower cells. They were planning a rebellion for the day of the games,” Gavroche explained quickly. “And Grantaire says he’s heard tell of plans to use them as an example to stop the other revolutionaries--”

“How fast can you run?” Bahorel interjected.

“Very fast. Faster for the right price.” Gavroche’s eyes widened as a gold coin dropped into his outstretched hand.

“Go to the armory and tell Montparnasse I need a blade. The kind he uses--I’m going to have to fight dirty this time. You can keep whatever’s left of the coin.” Gavroche opened his mouth in surprise, but Bahorel cut him off once more.

“Go!”

He rubbed his aching wrists slowly as he watched the small boy leave.  _ Don’t worry my love, I’ll save you. _

* * *

 

Jehan, Enjolras, and Combeferre sat in silence in their cell, their hands still bound. It had been hours and still no one had come to inform them of their fate. Jehan was just beginning to wonder if they would be left to rot when a guard appeared.

“Rise for your Praetor,” he barked. When the three men were standing, he stepped aside, revealing the thin, almost frail figure of the Praetor. He was draped in the official white and purple of his office.

“So you are the men who would take my place.” His voice grated on Jehan’s ears. 

“Not take it, destroy if,” Enjolras asserted. 

“You think you know better than your ancestors how to run an empire?”

“Perhaps there should be no empire, but a nation of free people--” Jehan called out from his place in the corner. The Praetor silenced him with a single look, which seemed to silently remind him that a word from the man would end his life.

“I’ve been trying to find a grande finale for my games tomorrow. If you’re so eager for war, then you shall have it. You and your supporters will play our enemies against the soldiers in the reenactments tomorrow.” He paused, gazing at the men before him. “You fathers served me well. It’s a shame the blood of citizens will go to waste. For after all, what is better than to be one of the most privileged class in the Empire?”

Combeferre spat on the ground in front of him.

“To be free.”

* * *

 

The day of the games had dawned warm and bright, and Bahorel knew that the sun would be beating down by the time the melee began. He pulled a light toga over his head, hefting the blade Gavroche had obtained for him. Ordinarily he prided himself on winning bloodless victories; but this time the match was  _ sine missione,  _ with no hope of reprieve after defeat. He paced the length of the area where he and his opponents sat waiting. How long now? There was no way of knowing. But he had felt Jehan’s fear spike last night, and their hearts had raced in unison ever since. Finally the bell tolled, and he could hear the sound of the untrained prisoners and convicts being released. A snarl from above confirmed his suspicions; the unlucky men and women in the ring would be fighting for their lives against the Praetor’s lions.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and ceased his incessant movement for a moment.

“Save your strength, friend,” Grantaire advised. “And take this.” The man handed Bahorel a strip of brightly coloured cloth.

“What is it?”

“Wear it. I have the matching piece. If we’re the last two we can say we fought as a pair, maybe they won’t make us kill each other.” Bahorel fingered the cloth thoughtfully before tying it around his waist.

“I’ll look out for you if I can.”

“Thanks.”

The two sat for an immeasurable length of time in companionable silence on a bench near the stairs leading to the ring. Finally, the sound of terrified people and angry, starving animals subsided. It was time.

* * *

 

Jehan sat quietly in a small room, waiting. Nearby Combeferre and his soulmate, another young citizen from the family Courfeyrac, had been embracing for some time. Jehan’s heart ached for them, for their friends, for the bonds that would be cut soon, and for himself. His gaze moved to Feuilly, who had not yet found his soulmate; Bossuet and Joly, who had been ripped from the third member of their triad that morning; Marius, who apparently had only found his days ago; and to Enjolras, who had been covertly making the gestures of the soulmate’s protection prayer for hours. Their deaths would cause so much pain, Jehan thought. Which was exactly why they had to die, he realized. To teach those who might rise in their stead a lesson on what that sacrifice meant. The Praetor had thought this through. He wondered where Bahorel was, if he knew just how much he loved him.  _ Of course he does. He must… _

A sharp pain radiated through Jehan’s ribs, and he gasps for air.  _ Bahorel must be in the arena now _ . His heart pounded, and Joly came to his side and helped him to the ground.

“Deep breaths, Jehan, stay calm. Breathe.The calmer you are the better it will be for him.” Jehan took the deepest breath his smarting ribs would allow, praying that Bahorel would not sustain any more injuries. There were a dozen trained warriors on the sand out there, fighting for their lives. Just as he began to calm down, he heard a cry from the other end of the room as Enjolras clutched his own leg in agony.

“Enjolras?” Jehan stood unsteadily and made his way across the floor until he was kneeling by his friend. “Look into my eyes. Focus on me. Shhh, shh. It hurts, doesn’t it?” The other man nodded shakily. “Have you felt anything like this before?”

“No, not--not this bad.”

“Then whoever it is, he’s good. He’ll be alright. Here, take my hand.” Jehan and Enjolras sat there together for a long time, until the pain began to subside once more. “I think they must be nearing the end by now,” Jehan whispered.

Enjolras tightened his grip on his hand. They both knew the chances were one of them would feel the agony of his soulbond breaking soon. The minutes ticked by, though, and nothing happened. Then suddenly--

* * *

 

A feeling of elation filled Bahorel’s chest as he and Grantaire joined hands, throwing their arms up in victory together. The crowd cheered louder than he had ever heard before, and he tried to ignore the bloodied bodies around him as he and his friend breathed freely for the first time in twenty long minutes. The Praetor stood, basking in the crowd’s elation just as much as the warriors below him. When they had quieted a bit, he spoke for all to hear:

“Bahorel and Grantaire, you are the victors of this match. Will you accept your freedom as your reward?”

Bahorel’s heart soared for a moment--he had waited his whole life to hear those words. But just as quickly, he came back to earth. His plan did not include freedom.

“Praetor, I ask that you grant another request, besides my freedom,” he shouted. Confused whispers broke out in the stands and the Praetor frowned.

“What is that?”

“Allow me to fight in the final match today.” The crowd began to cheer once more at the thought of their champion killing the upstarts who had attempted rebellion, but he cut them off. “Give the rebels who fight for the freedom of the Empire a real and honourable chance--let me fight with them.” An eerie silence filled the arena. The Praetor’s face was inscrutable, but at last he nodded.

“Very well. If you stand with the men who would overthrow our ancient and holy Empire, you will die with them. And Grantaire? Will you take your freedom?”

The man beside Bahorel tensed for a moment, then squared his shoulders.

“No. I am one of them.”

The crowd burst out into frenzied cries and shouts as Bahorel and Grantaire were manhandled over to one side of the arena by the Praetor’s guard. Rubble was piled in the middle, separating the military from the prisoners. The time had come.

A bell tolled, and the gates on Bahorel’s side of the barricade opened, allowing his compatriots to enter the arena. A moment later Jehan’s hand was clasped in his, and they turned to face their fate together.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this! I combined the "soulmates" and "gladiator" prompts--it just felt right somehow.  
> If it's unclear why Jehan (as a citizen) is able to be with Bahorel all the time, I figure his father probably owns him as well as a few other gladiators, so he'd have easy access. Also sorry for all the angst, but I suppose Vicky is really responsible for that...


End file.
